Required Reflection
by Cold Steel Night
Summary: Oneshot: Leon finds he's forced to remember his past occasionally. Rated for somewhat suggestive themes. Well, one theme.


**Required Reflection**

He stared at his reflection. He said nothing, because as usual, there was no need to say a thing. Anything that needed to be spoken was given voice inside his mind, most of the time, but this time, there wasn't even that.

Now was the time to just look back. He hadn't chosen this, of course; he had gone so far as to change his name to get away from the past, but he had begun to wonder lately, begun to think too often about his past life, and it was dangerous.

It had happened before, and he hadn't done anything about it for quite a time. At the end of it, every single thing within his line of vision had reminded him of Garden, of SeeDs, of Rinoa, Zell, Irvine, Quistis, Selphie, Seifer, Matron… everyone that he had let down. He had nearly caved right in front of Yuffie, nearly fell to his knees and let out an endless cry of anger and regret, but he had restrained himself.

As always.

He had gone home, to the three-room hut that he visited only to sleep (and now, to dwell on the things that were). He had dropped himself mercilessly onto his bed and buried his face into the closest pillow, trying not to feel like a four-year-old throwing a tantrum.

He hadn't emerged from his "home" for nearly a week, and naturally the others had been worried. But he had even gone so far as to magically lock his door; it was that important that they not see him in his—was there a word for it?—_precarious _mental condition.

But he had learned quickly. His memories, just like his physical energy, needed a vent as well. He needed to gradually release them, let them roam around, and pull them back in, else the pressure would build like compressed air and finally explode and cause the ultimate mental breakdown.

Therefore, here he sat. Staring at the mirror, as he now did roughly once a month. That seemed to be all he needed, though he had yet to determine exactly how many hours—if even one—he spent doing this each month.

He first studied his eyes, though not without the customary reluctance. They were blue. Simple enough.

Blue-grey, he finally admitted, would be more accurate. They had gotten bluer over time, though, he noticed. It would make sense, since others had always told him that his eyes changed from blue to grey depending on his moods. He could never agree or dispute them, naturally, so he had simply shrugged it off with a casual "whatever."

He watched his reflection smirk at the memory of the word he had tossed around like Yuffie tossed shuriken. As if the image of broody Squall Leonhart, arms folded, weight shifted onto his right leg, grey eyes attempting to melt the ground beside him and a frown that was so constant it was probably breeding, didn't _already_ frantically scream "angsty teenager!"

That boy had been so determined to shut everyone out after he, at the tender age of—what? six? younger?—had been abandoned by his one and only love, his borderline obsession. Ellone, his "Sis." The child had come to the conclusion that he didn't need anyone, that he was perfectly capable of fending for himself no matter the circumstances, and that depending on anyone other than himself could only end in betrayal and hurt, something that the child wasn't prepared, would never be prepared, to deal with.

Was he weak for trying so drastically to fend off emotional pain?

But in his dive at strength, he managed to sufficiently destroy any feelings he might ever harbor. What was left was a shell, only showing mild surprise and sometimes anger.

His standing form idly slashed the air horizontally with his right arm, fully straightening it behind him. The movement was familiar, as if his muscles welcomed that particular path.

He had finally given in, though, hadn't he? The "Ice Prince" of Balamb Garden had been melted, by an angel in blue.

He watched his own face darken at the thought of the woman he had loved, watched his blue eyes turn more grey than they had been before.

'So they were right.'

But this realization didn't stop his mind from traveling down a road named Rinoa. That road traveled through a certain flower field, one swirling with bright pink petals and white feathers. The field where he had often joined her in his dreams, the field beside his matron's house where they had first made love.

So maybe the Ice Prince was a bit of a romantic. Just a tiny bit. But being in that field with that young woman with the kindest pair of brown eyes he had ever seen, everything they did had seemed so right. Seifer, had he known, would have laughed cruelly and called them "the sappiest pair of saps ever." It was just stupid and yet insulting enough to be a comment that Seifer would make, so much so that he could hear the elder gunblader's voice saying it.

Only, not quite. The words were there, the sarcastic bite was there, but he seemed to have forgotten his rival's voice.

Come to think of it…

He tried to recall Rinoa's voice, Zell's, Quistis'…

He couldn't remember any of their voices. He scowled, finally seeing his reflection once more. He felt that he _must_ remember Seifer's voice, like nothing else was so imperative except to recall his rival's baritone laughing at him cruelly through a smirk.

For some reason, that smirk was illuminated by firelight.

He looked around and found he was standing on Edea's parade float, the false light of Deling City closing in on him and threatening to crush him into the perfect being that society desired. Hence why he hated big cities.

He quickly turned back at the sound of more laughing. "My romantic dream," the blond-haired gunblader said, spreading his arms grandly. And he heard the voice perfectly.

He snapped back to his own house, not taking for granted that he had remembered Seifer's voice. It wasn't a pleasant memory, but it was something he needed. Something that kept him from crumbling into a pitiful heap of what was once Commander of Balamb Garden: the fact that Seifer's memory would forever be leering down at him, swinging his gunblade from over his shoulder and hitting Squall directly between the eyes, making a cut deep enough to leave a permanent scar.

The Lion lunged forward for his revenge…

And into his mirror. The pain in his nose seemed for an instant to be the pain of Seifer's cut, until he remembered where he truly was.

_'Hollow Bastion. And never to see Seifer again.'_

He gave his reflection one last look, and decided that this particularly vivid bout of recollection was enough for one month, if not two. He turned and picked up his gunblade once more, grasping it with familiarity and endearment before crossing to his door and opening it. He stepped out into his new world, that of Hollow Bastion, and made his way toward Merlin's house, where his new friends were certain to be waiting for him.

After all, Leon knew, Squall Leonhart was long dead.


End file.
